


Whispers

by jillyfae



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Circle of Magi, Demons, Gen, Magic, Templars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 20:58:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillyfae/pseuds/jillyfae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The voices that hover on the edges of hearing whisper to us in the night. In that instant between day and night, between sleep and wakefulness, we are vulnerable. Thoughts of temptation and duty, conscience and fear. And underneath, a boiling, bubbling, yearning desire to be free.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whispers

I am tired.

I am tired of having to force myself to go to sleep at night.

_Don't you like your dreams? I build them just for you._

I am tired when I wake up.

_I am always here for you, not just in your sleep._

I am so tired my arms are sore when I lift them to pull a scroll down off a shelf to study. They shake when I carry a pile of books back to the library after class.

_Why carry them? Burn them all, fire and ash. I can teach you things you'll never find in any book._

Sometimes my elbows crack as I force my hands to move, book after book, straightening everything, my assigned chore before I'm allowed to sup.

_They claim it's a reward, letting you work in the library rather than the kitchens, the stables, the laundry. Just for the good ones. But what sort of reward, to taunt you with so many stories from the world they'll never let you see? So cruel. Such punishment. How they must hate you._

_I would never be so cruel. I would never hate you._

I'm tired of pretending I want to eat. The food is all the same. The effort of lifting a spoon, of swallowing, of pretending to listen, to talk, to force a smile, a laugh. To complain about the lectures. The food. To blend in with the other apprentices.

_Let me hold you. Rest on me, and you'll never have to pretend again._

But the Templars watch us, even there, and I dare not let my exhaustion show.

That way lies the brand. A smooth, calm face. A voice, empty of inflection, emotion. No more desires.

No more dreams.

_I knew you liked them. Just for you. All for you._

Every morning, I recite it in my mind, to make sure I do not forget, even if I do not always believe. Even though I've lost track of the things I used to like to do, hidden in a dull grey fog of aching worry and fear, I try and remember. If I say it enough, maybe I'll convince myself. Make it true again.

I do not want to die.

_We could live forever._

I do not want to fade.

_We would burn so bright. Brighter than the stars. Bright as the heart of a fire._

I do not want the false life, the lie that is Tranquility.

_I would never try and quiet your voice. Scream with me._

But I do not want to live either.

Not like this.

Not afraid of the shadows in the hall. Not constantly reminding myself how to walk. How to breathe.

_I will free you from your fear._

I have to pretend I'm just like everyone else. No one can know that the whispers aren't just in my dreams, anymore. I don't remember why, but the whispers are bad.

Aren't they?

_Of course not. Who else is always here for you? I am your dearest, closest friend._

Then one morning, the litany fails me. I tell my legs to move. My head to rise. My arms to push back the covers. But all those things seem like so much work, with such little reward. If I do those things, what do I get? I still have to walk across the room. Open the wardrobe. Find my robe. Put it on. Fold my night-shirt. Put it under my pillow. Pull up my sheet. Then my blanket. Smooth the bed.

The prospect is terrifying. I am so weary of fighting. Such a list, so many things to do, and I won't even have made it to the hallway yet.

If I do make it to the hallway, what then? So many steps, across cold stone floors. Stairs. And more stairs, following the noise to the dining hall. Other people's steps. Other people's voices. The clank of dishes, the bubbling of the water they keep boiling for tea. So many people eating in one small room is loud, but not loud enough to drown out the whispers. The ones that aren't people.

_And what have your people ever done for you? You are so much better than them._

Breakfast, where I'll have to deal with the pressure of all those people. Eyes, everywhere. Watching. Always, always watching. I can feel them, each glance, butterflies against my skin, all day, every day.

_We could pluck their eyes from their sockets. No one would ever look at you without your permission again._

No. That's wrong. Isn't it? Not natural. Not normal.

I used to be normal. What is normal?

_Weak. Ignorant._

I want to be normal. Don't I?

_Embrace strength. Knowledge._

Would I even recognize it, if I saw it?

_I can give you such power. I can grant you such sights. You'd need never look for 'normal' again._

"Maker, though the Darkness comes upon me,  
I shall embrace the light."

There is no light, here, deep between stone walls and metal, surrounded by armor and wards.

_We could tear down these walls. No one would ever be in the dark again._

"Maker, though I walk through the shadows at the edge of the Void..."

I can't remember the next part.

I am just so tired.

I am too tired to sleep.

I am too tired to wake up.

I close my eyes.

Footsteps. They found me. They're going for a Healer.

One look, and they'll know there's nothing wrong with me.

Physically.

And then they'll call the Templars.

I open my eyes, but all I can see is the dark sunburst that will end it all. Cold iron made hot, lyrium searing my forehead, my mind.

Peace. Quiet. Cool darkness, everywhere. Forever.

For the first time in weeks, I can feel something besides fear and worry. Cold, slick horror coats my throat, nausea twisting low in my stomach.

_I can make the pain go away._

They'll make the pain go away.

I don't want the pain to go away.

There are worse things than pain.

_We can make them hurt, instead._

I have to choose.

The brand. No more waiting, no more worries, no more cares.

_Condemned to nothing, all the rest of your days._

Or the whisper, promising passion and pain and fire.

_Power. Freedom. Revenge._

I can hear footsteps getting nearer. Voices moving down the hallway.

My time has run out.

_Choose._

I reach for the fire.


End file.
